Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

The Pendergast family had converted it to another use entirely.

In his mind, Pendergast made his way down the tunnel, which opened onto a broad, low open space, the irregular floor part earth, part stone, with a groined ceiling. The walls were encrusted with niter, and dim marble crypts, elaborately carved in Victorian and Edwardian style, filled the expanse, separated from one another by narrow walkways of brick.

Suddenly he became aware of a presence in the room: a small shadow. Then he heard the shadow speak with a seven-year-old voice: “Are you sure you want to keep going?”

With another shock, Pendergast realized there was a second figure in the dim space: taller, more slender, with white-blond hair. He felt chilled to the bone-it was himself, nine years old. He heard his own smooth, childish voice speak: “You’re not afraid?”

“No. Of course not,” came the small, defiant return-the voice of his brother, Diogenes.

“Well, then.”

Pendergast watched as the two dim figures made their way through the necropolis, candles in hand, the taller one leading the way.

He felt a rising dread. He didn’t remember this at all-and yet he knew something fearful was about to happen.

The fair-haired figure began examining the carved fronts of the tombs, reading the Latin inscriptions in a high, clear voice. They had both taken to Latin with great enthusiasm. Diogenes, Pendergast remembered, had always been the better Latin student; his teacher thought him a genius.

“Here’s an odd one,” said the older boy. “Take a look, Diogenes.”

The smaller figure crept up and read:

ERASMUS LONGCHAMPS PENDERGAST

De mortüs aut bene aut nihil

“Do you recognize the line?”

“Horace?” said the younger figure. “‘Of the dead’… hmmm… ‘speak well or say nothing.’”

After a silence, the older boy said, with a touch of condescension, “Bravo, little brother.”

“I wonder,” asked Diogenes, “what it was about his life he didn’t want talked about?”

Pendergast remembered his youthful rivalry with his brother over Latin… one in which he was eventually left far behind.

They moved on to an elaborate double crypt, a sarcophagus in the Roman style topped with a man and woman in marble, both laid out in death with hands crossed on their breasts.

“Louisa de Nemours Prendergast. Henri Prendergast. Nemo nisi mors,” read the older boy. “Let’s see… That must be ‘Till death do us part.’”

The smaller boy had already moved to another tombstone. Crouching, he read, “Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, Multa recedentes adimiunt.” He looked up. “Well, Aloysius, what do you make of that?”

A silence followed, and then the response came, bravely but a little uncertain. “‘Many years come to make us comfortable, many receding years diminish us.’”

The translation was greeted with a sarcastic snicker. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. ‘Many receding years diminish us’? That’s nonsense. I think it means something like ‘The years, as they come, bring many comforts. As they recede, they…’” He paused. “Adimiunt?”

“Just what I said: diminish,” said the older boy.

“‘As they recede, they diminish us,’” finished Diogenes. “In other words, when you’re young, the years bring good. But as you grow old, the years take it all away again.”

“That makes no more sense than mine,” said Aloysius, annoyance in his voice. He moved on toward the back of the necropolis, down another narrow row of crypts, reading more names and inscriptions. At the end of the cul-de-sac, he paused at a marble door set into the back wall, a rusted metal grate over it.

“Look at this tomb,” he said.

Diogenes came up close, peered at it with his candle. “Where’s the inscription?”

“There isn’t one. But it’s a crypt. It’s got to be a door.” Aloysius reached up, gave the grate a pull. Nothing. He pushed at it, pulled it, and then picked up a stray fragment of marble and began tapping around its edges. “Maybe it’s empty.”

“Maybe it’s meant for us,” the younger boy said, a ghoulish gleam appearing in his eyes.

“It’s hollow back there.” Aloysius redoubled his tapping and gave the grate another tug-and then suddenly, with a grinding sound, it opened. The two stood there, frightened.

“Oh, the stink!” said Diogenes, backing up and holding his nose.

And now Pendergast, deep within his mental construct, smelled it, too-an indescribable odor, foul, like a rotten, fungus-covered liver. He swallowed as the walls of the memory palace wavered, then came back into solidity.

Aloysius shone his candle into the freshly exposed space. It wasn’t a crypt at all, but rather a large storage room, set into the rear of the sub-basement. The flickering light played off an array of strange contraptions made of brass, wood, and glass.

“What’s in there?” Diogenes said, creeping back up behind his brother.

“See for yourself.”

Diogenes peered in. “What are they?”

“Machines,” the older brother said positively, as if he knew.

“Are you going in?”

“Naturally.” Aloysius stepped through the doorway and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I guess so.”

Pendergast, from the shadows, watched them go in.

The two boys stood in the room. The lead walls were streaked with whitish oxides. The space was packed floor-to-ceiling with contraptions: boxes painted with grimacing faces; old hats, ropes, and moth-eaten scarves; rusted chains and brass rings; cabinets, mirrors, capes, and wands. Cobwebs and thick layers of dust draped everything. At one end, propped up sideways, stood a sign, painted in garish colors and embellished with curlicues, a pair of pointing hands, and other nineteenth-century American carnival flourishes.

Late from the Great Halls of Europe

The Illustrious and Celebrated Mesmerist

Professor Comstock Pendergast

Presents

THE GRAND THEATRE AND ILLUMINATED PHANTASMAGORIA

Of

Magick, Illusion, and Prestidigitation

Pendergast stood in the shadows of his own memory, filled with the helpless foreboding of nightmare, watching the scene unfold. At first the two boys explored cautiously, their candlelight throwing elongated shadows among the boxes and piles of bizarre devices.

“Do you know what all this is?” whispered Aloysius.

“What?”

“We’ve found all the stuff from Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock’s magic show.”

“Who’s Great-Grand-Uncle Comstock?”

“Only the most famous magician in the history of the world. He trained Houdini himself.”

Aloysius touched a cabinet, ran his hand down to a knob, and cautiously pulled out a drawer: it contained a pair of manacles. He opened another drawer, which seemed to stick, and then it gave with a sudden pop! A pair of mice shot out of the drawer and scurried off.

Aloysius moved on to the next item, his younger brother following close behind. It was a coffin-like box standing upright, with a screaming man painted on the lid, numerous bloody holes piercing his body. He opened it with a groan of rusty hinges to reveal an interior studded with wrought-iron spikes.

“That looks more like torture than magic,” said Diogenes.

“There’s dried blood on those spikes.”

Diogenes peered closely, fear temporarily overcome by a strange eagerness. Then he stepped back again. “That’s just paint.”

“Are you sure?”

“I know dried blood when I see it.”

Aloysius moved on. “Look at that.” He pointed to an object in the far corner. It was a huge box, much larger than the others, rising from floor to ceiling, the size of a small room itself. It was garishly painted in red and gold with a grinning demon’s face on the front. Flanking the demon were odd things-a hand, a bloodshot eye, a finger-floating against the crimson background almost like severed body parts loosed in a tide of blood. Arched over a door cut into the side was a legend painted in gold and black: